Bedtime Stories
by Little Miss Insufferable
Summary: When the Doctor shows up at Clara's flat one Wednesday afternoon, he's surprised to find the place empty. Deciding to wait for her to return home, he takes it upon himself to occupy his time by routing through her things. What happens when he stumbles upon a racy book stashed underneath Clara's pillow?


The TARDIS materialises in a whirr of noise and the Doctor sticks his head out of the doors to peer around Clara's living room. He finds it empty and frowns.

"Clara?" No answer.

With one smooth stride he steps out of the TARDIS and heads through the living room door into the hallway. No Clara there either. He checks the kitchen and then her bedroom in that order and stares at the empty rooms with a slightly furrowed brow. _It is Wednesday, isn't it? _

When he heads back into the TARDIS, the screen displays the time and date as very obviously a Wednesday. It's not like Clara to be absent for one of their outings, but he decides to wait around in case she's gotten held up somewhere anyway. He seats himself in the armchair at the edge of the console room and steeples his fingers in front of him as he settles in for the wait.

His patience holds out for all of two minutes before he's climbing to his feet in a fit of restlessness. There's nothing that needs tinkering with on the console and the prospect of venturing off into the rest of the TARDIS in search of something to entertain his ever-wandering mind with is an uninteresting one. Clara's flat is naturally the next choice for sources of entertainment.

The Doctor steps out into the living room again and promptly scans his surroundings for anything worthy of his attention. There's a tall, skinny bookcase pushed up against one wall with what looks to be a selection of romance novels amidst classical literature, science fiction novels and the odd non-fiction book. He doesn't need to peruse the titles to know that he's read all of them before.

Away from the bookcase, there's a TV on the adjacent wall and a DVD player situated underneath it. The Doctor briefly considers switching the former on and flicking through the TV channels, but then remembers the last time he tried to watch anything and ended up throwing the remote at the TV screen. Patience isn't something this regeneration seems to have a lot of and somehow he doubts that Clara would be all too impressed to come home to a broken TV.

In front of the TV sits a solid wooden coffee table with a bowel filled with some bizarre-looking substance that smells vaguely of cinnamon. Next to the cinnamon bowl is a magazine with a woman's picture splashed across the front cover. With a slightly furrowed brow, the Doctor reaches down and plucks it off of the table to peruse.

'_Six ways to spice things up in the bedroom' _and _'the ultimate gift guide for your man this Christmas' _are printed in bold letters across the front among other indecent titles about orgasms and sex toys. With a frown and a slightly wide-eyed expression, he hastily returns the magazine back to where it came from. _Humans. _He sometimes wonders if they're all in a permanent state of erotic charge.

The living room is quickly written off as a source of entertainment and the Doctor ventures out into the rest of the flat. The bathroom is definitely a no-go, and last time he tried to improve Clara's oven with a bit of tinkering she'd made him come oven shopping with her as punishment. It had been the worst three hours of his life. Then Clara had gotten even angrier with him when he'd started an argument with a salesman over his knowledge of electrical appliances. Despite being dragged out of the shop by a small angry woman holding onto the scruff of his collar, he likes to think he came out on top.

With every other room in her flat written off, the only remaining option is Clara's bedroom. With her three mirrors and her stacks of boxes full of all sorts of objects, the Doctor surmises that there's bound to be something worth occupying himself with in there.

_Clara's letting herself go, _he thinks to himself as he walks into her somewhat unkempt bedroom. The woman is usually more organised than a filing cabinet, but for some reason she's neglected to make her bed or put away the clothes that have been carelessly discarded on the floor.

Crossing over to the bed, the Doctor reaches out and grabs the edge of the crumpled duvet in his hands. He's never been much of a man for domestics, but making the bed is something even he can manage. He straightens up the sheets with careful precision and smoothens out the duvet once he's done. The pillows are next and he tugs both back into their position at the top of the bed. It's then that he notices the corner of a book sticking out from underneath the two pillows. Curious, he tugs it out and holds the cover up to examine.

'_Forbidden Encounters' _reads the front cover. He frowns at that. In 2000 years of time and space it's rare for him to come across a book he hasn't heard of, and yet this novel is as foreign to him as a hug is to a Dalek.

Underneath the book title is the silhouette of what appears to be a professor stood beside a chalk board. The Doctor's brow furrows and he flips the book over to read the blurb. From the few sentences printed on the back, it appears to be some sort of romance come thriller novel. Curiosity reigns supreme and he decides that reading is as good a method of passing the time whilst he waits for Clara as any other.

He props Clara's pillow up against the headboard, swings his legs up onto the bed and promptly settles down with the company of the unfamiliar book in his hands. The chapters aren't named, so there are no clues there. He starts with chapter one (because for a change he feels like following human logic) and begins to read at a speed far quicker than any human could possibly hope to read at.

The first chapter appears somewhat tedious. The young woman described in the novel spends the entirety of the first section of the book describing the physical characteristics of a decidedly older history professor of hers, with particular attention being paid to the way his shirt clings to his torso and some rather inappropriate remarks about the man bending over at the front of the classroom. The Doctor peers down at the book derisively and hopes that the next chapter will be full of less pointless waffle.

The pages turn quickly in his hands as he finds himself growing bored of the inherently romantic theme behind the novel. Romance isn't a concept entirely foreign to the Doctor, but he's never been a big fan of the genre in book-form; least of all so when it appears as poorly written as the story he's found himself despondently involved in. The characters are vapid and ridiculous, and Lucy's history professor is pompous, arrogant and altogether miserable. The Doctor huffs derisively at yet another passage detailing the intense heat Lucy feels when her eyes meet with Professor Black's.

He thinks he might give up altogether, when he turns the next page and the story takes a decidedly unexpected turn. Suddenly there are hands slipping under skirts and hot breath on skin and the Doctor's eyes widen in alarm. "Clara Oswald!" He exclaims in a mixture of horror and chastisement.

There's a brief moment in which he finds himself torn over whether to continue, and eventually curiosity gets the better of him and he takes a peak at the next page.

'_I shiver as his fingers find their way underneath the waistband of my white cotton underwear, brushing past the small patch of brown curls and ever so lightly grazing over the sensitive nerves between my legs. Instinctively my hips buck into his hand, and with a growl he presses the hard bulge of his erection into-'_

Decidedly flustered and as red as a ripened tomato, the Doctor slams the book shut in his hands and throws it across the bed as though it burns. When he climbs awkwardly to his feet, his wide eyes are met by those of an equally horrified Clara Oswald.

"What are you doing here?!" She demands after a moment of stunned silence; her voice shrill. Her cheeks mirror the same shade of red that currently stains the Doctor's pale skin, and she looks for all intents and purposes as though she wishes the very ground beneath her would swallow her up.

"That- _that," _he points accusingly at the discarded novel. "Is a filthy book! Why would you keep such a thing under your pillow?! What's wrong with good old Pride and Prejudice?! Or Harry Potter! Or Doctor Zeus!"

There's a very obvious switch in Clara's demeanour from mortified to downright indignant. "What are you even doing in my bedroom?! You had no right to go snooping around at my things! _No right!" _She's positively thunderous now, and the Doctor can't help but take a small step backwards, finding himself backed up against the edge of her bed. He straightens up and puts on his best derisive sneer.

"You humans… Always thinking with your hormones. It's no wonder your planet is over-populated when this sort of thing goes on all of the time." He gestures vaguely towards her before promptly folding his arms across his chest. He can practically feel the anger radiating off of Clara in waves.

"Excuse me?" She takes a step towards him and now there's barely a foot of space between them. "Who exactly do you think you are? Just because you have all of the sex drive of a turnip, does not give you the right to look down on people who do enjoy sex!"

The Doctor is slightly taken back by that. He frowns, eyes her for a moment and then promptly huffs. "I never said I didn't enjoy… that. But there's a time and a place and I don't need the help of badly-written pornographic novels to keep my hormones in check."

This time it's Clara's turn to look taken aback. Obviously surprised to hear him openly admit to actually having had sex, she spends several moments giving him a curious look before shaking herself out of her lightly miffed state. "That book is not badly-written! I'll have you know it's won awards!" She shouts back defensively.

The Doctor scoffs. "Awards? Awards for what exactly? Worst depiction of sexual activities ever? Least arousing attempt at erotic fiction in existence? In 2000 years of time and space I don't think I've ever read such an abysmal excuse for a book."

"Oh and I suppose you could write better?" Clara angles her head to one side as she mirrors his silhouette and folds her own arms across her chest.

"Clara, a _chimpanzee _could write better." It's probably not even much of an exaggeration. Chimpanzees have a basic knowledge of fornication, which is more than can be said for the idiot who wrote the novel currently lying on the end of Clara's bed.

"Fine. As you seem to think yourself some kind of walking karma sutra, write something better." She poses the challenge to him and meets his slightly wide eyes her with her own defiant ones.

He's surprised for all of a couple of seconds, before his expression slips into a glare. "Absolutely not."

"Why not? If you're so all-knowing then it should be a walk in the park for you to write a best-selling erotic novel." There's a look in Clara's eyes that he can't quite place, but somehow he knows it doesn't bode well for him.

Stubbornly, he continues to give her a stern look. "Because I wouldn't waste a minute of my time writing pointless drivel just to keep the hormones of the human race in check."

"Or maybe you wouldn't have a clue what to write about." She remarks, and already he knows she's goading him. The rational part of his brain is screaming at him not to fall into her trap, but for some reason it loses out in the face of what he can only describe as raw stupidity.

"Fine. I'll write your damn story, but only to prove the point that I have far more knowledge in the area than you could possibly comprehend." He's not sure what possesses him to say it, but he knows for a fact he'll regret rising to Clara's bait later on. Said woman is now smirking triumphantly and it makes him want to skulk off to the TARDIS and brood in a dark room. In fact, he almost thinks he might do just that.

"I look forward to reading this literary masterpiece." Clara responds with that same triumphant smirk as she leans on the wall to her right, arms still folded across her chest.

The Doctor knows it makes him look like a petulant child, but that doesn't stop him from huffing and stalking out of her room, across the living room and into his TARDIS. _Let her rue the day she ever challenged me to write an erotic novel. _


End file.
